Page 17 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter

A pair of embroidered silk gloves, the fingertips yellowing with age.

A bundle of faded postcards from destinations all across the globe.

A small wooden sun painted gold, the snapped rays carefully glued back together.

A scrapbook collecting clippings of every piece of writing I’ve ever published.

An album of secret photographs of me through the decades.

My life in objects.

My life fractured in pieces.

The room is quiet, just the whirring of the air-conditioning, the faint whoosh of cars passing in the street, and, if I listen closely enough, the sound of my broken heart. No one would know how much any of this means to me. But my entire heart is locked away in here, splintered between each item and the person it represents.

I ease the gift box in front of the sketch, and I’m sure now of what comes next. I stand and retrieve the book from the bookshelf, my worn, weathered copy ofRobinson Crusoe, and nestle it inside at the front, everything in order. Now the collection is complete, a timeline of my long life.

Seeing it all makes me think: What’s next?

Is it time to end this? Is that why Death is teasing me, prolonging his arrival?

A knock comes at the door, breaking the silence with perfect timing. He has always appeared at his whims, and not a moment too soon.

I stand, brushing my hands on my skirt, and let the trunk slam shut.

It’s time to face whatever is supposed to come next.

Five

Ifling the door open, the knob slamming into the wall. Instead of Death smirking at me in a new form, Sebastian stands there, wide eyed, chest heaving. “Vivian?”

I flinch and swallow the name, grating against another reminder of how little he knows, how little I can share. “What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?”

My tone’s sharper than I want it to be, but I can’t seem to keep anything under control right now.

“You were so upset ... I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Even as I’m pushing him away, he’s here, steady. I’m falling to pieces and being mean to him, and he’s still standing here, concerned. I wish I could tell him my secret. Not just because I trust him, but because I know he’dget it—he’d see the story in it, the history, the wonder. I think he’d see the beauty in it—the meaning others would miss. But even the thought is an impossibility.

“I appreciate you coming, but I really need to be alone.”

“Are you sure? Of course, you don’t owe me an explanation ...” He approaches cautiously; his face is crestfallen and confused. “But I can’t shake the feeling that something happened. One minute you were inviting me here for dinner. The next—well, I’m not sure. For what it’s worth, I’m here.”

Guilt bubbles up inside me, and I can’t push him away.

“It’s just my past,” I say, trying to hold back the emotions. “And there’s nothing you can do about that.”

He studies me, unflinching. “Can I help? The past is sort of my specialty.”

“I just met you yesterday.” A hot tear streaks down my face, landing on my collarbone. He reaches, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb, still managing to make me smile despite the overwhelming pull of my past and my present.

“Your birthmark—so unusual and beautiful. Just like you.” His fingers gently trace the heart-shaped mark.

I want to lean in, but our touch sends sparks, and I snap out of the reverie. “This isn’t your problem. You can’t help me with it. No one can. You should go.”

“Are you sure? I’ll go if that’s what you truly want, but every part of me is saying that I shouldn’t. That I can’t just let you disappear.”

“That’s what I’m best at.” I clutch the door, trusting it to keep me upright—the emotion of everything running through me. I don’t want to disappear. I want to let him in. I want to understand how it’s still possible to feel this way after all these years, all these lifetimes.